to mom

I remember the day I first loved you
and knew it

You were standing in the kitchen --
little you -- so big to me
Woman of grace
and honor -- woman of God
There was a day I couldn't have told you
I love you
But that day's over now

Now you can just be my mom
and I'll be happy

writing love: thoughts on a tuesday

This may be my one last chance to write before the baby comes. When he is born, and life is more about him than us (and shouldn’t it be?), the writing will be secondary – weak – compared to showing the love I could be writing.

Perhaps all great novels – all novels whose characters’ morality far exceeds yours or mine – have their roots in love. Love is the theme; love is the point; love is their only reason to exist. I believe this about A Wrinkle in Time, Les Miserables, The Death of Ivan Ilyich. God is love, so if novels are to show God at all, they have to speak love.

Steinbeck and Lee -- they inspire me. They break my dead, hard earth with their rain of life-words. They make me believe in fiction again. They make me believe that novels will always be stronger than the essays that that analyze them.

It’s appalling that men think they’re capable of creating goodness. Goodness – and the expression of it – is a God-gift. All expression of goodness in written works is straight from God. I’ve read novels that men call great, but they have no hope and they have no love. Madeleine L’Engle wrote in one of her books (Walking on Water, I think, or maybe A Circle of Quiet) that if a story offers no hope it’s… well, hopeless. A story needs to offer the reader something other than a dead end. I agree with her. But I don’t think I can place that hope there on my own. I didn’t come packaged with the most hopeful thing of all: love. What I know of love is my God-gift, so I give my words to Him and ask Him to spin something out of them that’s far beyond the borders of my being, my intellect, or even my soul.

you muslims

I visited your house of worship thinking, "This will be such a strange people, with a religion much different than anything I've ever known."

We watched in a dark room, overlooking you men bowing, standing, praying, bending, worshiping "God Almighty." The imam sang the Arabic words; a hundred men responded. You believe this is true worship -- shoulder to shoulder, toe to toe.

But who is Jesus to you? A prophet -- equal with Muhammed, but one given miracles instead of the Qur'an. He was a man -- only a man. His death was an illusion and so he lives until the end times when he'll die a natural death. That's who you say he is.

But what of the things He said? I wanted to ask you. What of His claims to be the way, the truth, the life? What of His claims to be the Son of God? Was He a liar as well as a your prophet? If you believe in the virgin birth, then who -- Who? -- was His Father?

You Muslims sat on the floor and talked for over an hour as I shifted my legs under me, beside me, in front of me. You answered questions like it was easy, and so I know you truly believe everything you've said. You believe in everything you do.

Everything you do. That's the other thing. You believe God is holy. Perfect. Sinless. And we're not -- you and I. Funny -- I believe that too.

But what do you do at the end of the day when you recognize your depravity and God Almighty's glory, perfection, omnipotence, beauty, worth, holiness? You say, "It's time to work. It's time to get in good with the Creator of the universe." And it's funny because the story you're telling -- the one I thought would be so strange -- is so familiar, almost like... the thoughts that rattle around in my mind. But you Muslims -- you work. You do. You live like you're supposed to. You put me to shame. You are good. You Muslims are so good.

in my eyes.
but I am not God.

So at the end of the day, what do you do? What can you do...

without Jesus the Christ?

me and the drunk

Me and the drunk -- we gathered up our pieces, the only ones we saw of our tattered lives. There could have been pieces more important to the big picture, but that was all we could see, so we had to work with what we had. We picked a few up -- broken shards, memories, and the like -- hoping, knowing we'd be able to see better soon.

afraid

I'm afraid to move
afraid to breathe
to work and live

but there's nothing else
to do

except not move,
breathe,
work, live

and I've already tried that
and discovered something
better

this is freedom

This is my little piece of reality from the world. This is what convinces me the writing must go on in spite of me. There were weeks -- months? -- of silence, but they break at this sight.

Who told me it was all about me? Who told me I must have one last snippet of freedom and laziness before children break my individuality? "Sleep all you can now." That's what she said.

No, live all I can! Write all I can! Worship, sing, fly all I can! Not because I'll miss my chance come October (though I may), but because I'll miss my chance -- come tomorrow -- if I don't.

This is freedom.

the man in the middle of the street

There's a man in the middle of the street.
And his wheelchair has replaced his legs.
He holds a sign for help.
And I drive by,
wondering what his life is like
and why he chooses sign-holding as his career.

But I never ask him,
so I never know.

for all lost

For months lost,
for readers lost,
for opportunities,
for words
lost.
For worship lost,
for all lost --
I have gained.

finding the hero

I found the hero today. Or I found his edges. He was off in a corner full of the dust of my house, still as heroic as ever. I set him up on my table and asked him about his heroic deeds and why he had done them. And he told me it was all because of the love that he had and the love that was him. I smiled because I knew that answer. And he didn’t offer anymore information about his heroism because I already knew, and he knew I knew.

But he remained with his eyes just fixated on me, so I decided to keep talking so things wouldn’t get uncomfortable. So we just talked about all sorts of stuff – marriage, my problems and depression, other people’s problems and depression, and more about him.

And I asked him what else he did for a living. And he named a lot of things, but what I remember is that he said he really liked art. All kinds of art. And I thought that was cool. He said his art reflected him but that it was not him. And I thought that was kind of an obvious thing to say, and kind of weird. But I just nodded. He offered me one of his paintings then, and I took it gladly, thinking that that made it all worth my while, taking him out of the corner and onto my table like I did. He seemed glad that I liked the painting, so I smiled. And he was smiling back.

I think he liked me a lot and liked to talk about his stuff too.

And then I backed up and looked at him because, you know, I had just realized that I really liked him too, and I couldn’t believe I had left such an intriguing guy to sit and get dusty in the corner. I backed up mentally, too, just to take it all in. He had told me about all these things he had done and how wonderful his character was and everything, and for the first time in my life, I kind of felt like he was the only guy who really deserved to talk about himself like that. And I just found him so interesting, you know? So perfect and talented and good and loving. So that’s why I backed up – because I had suddenly realized that my stuff wasn’t even really worth talking about and his was.

And when I backed up, he was just so beautiful… I can’t… I can’t even… His beauty just so outshone mine that I really just disappeared – kind of like a fragment of color in a whole big painting. Then we just sat silently together, admiring all his stuff and him. And he was God.

clamour

They shot around words and ideas
like they were the enemy
instead of the tools of the enemy.
Others dodged bullets and called
for fairness and a fight.
They called for “justice for all”
and liberty now and here,
unaware that they’d have it
if they’d just shut up.

I watched and smiled – and cried –
because I felt like I was on the other side
and in the hand of peace,
still sad to know that they thought
it was all about the fight.
But maybe I was still in the fight.
I didn’t know because everything
was just so loud.

I told myself I was on the safe shore now –
the dangerous one –
where we take the hits and speak love
and all for the glory of God.